I have a submission.
It's kind of like a confession,
though it requires a little less
elaboration. What it takes
to break down and send in
my powers: all my powers.
My power suit requires
a little more time
in the shredder and acid bath
to completely decompose.
My impulse to compose
cannot help but make more
email, even as the text
becomes stale on my fingers
having lettered these letters
a long time ago. I need to focus
on less focus on the mess of
unfocused waiting, grating no
cheese, being only being
with a little bit of please.
The principal agent problem
pits principles against agency
and always decides in favor
of less derision for less
control. Rather than leaning
on the control key, I need to
find my ring finger way to
alt. And I must accept myself
as a receptable for fault,
a catalepsy without recourse
to illness as anything
but matador. The bull's horns
are my corn syrup. Put them
in everything and I will
dribble out, viscous enough
to take the hits however
they come.
Roman Ryan 